


Metamorphosis

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [7]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-14 23:08:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3428936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Living with Athos and Porthos is full of surprises. Athos' face is one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



Aramis doesn’t know what he expected. Not this. He always had a vague idea of what may lie underneath the hair. A very vague idea. Too vague, apparently.

He’d also forgotten that he’d offered to cut Athos’ hair, once upon a time. Porthos had not. (Athos had claimed to know nothing about the matter, _nor_ a reason why his hair needed cutting at all. Porthos had just _looked_ at him.)

So here they are. In Athos’ room, because it has the most light. Aramis has relieved Athos of about 4cm of hair all around. The result is remarkable. Remarkably handsome, to be precise. Aramis is a bit smitten. He can admit that. To himself. He clears his throat. “I think … I think that should do.”

Porthos, who is lounging on Athos’ bed, grins and moves to hold a small mirror up for Athos. “There you go. Your face. Your Mom will be so pleased.”

Athos doesn’t reply. Instead he turns his head to look up at Aramis. “Thank you.”

Aramis very nearly blushes. “You’re welcome.”

He mumbles the words, and can barely restrain himself from touching Athos’ hair yet again. Athos has very nice hair. Soft and silky. Cutting it felt really good. Aramis can admit that as well. To himself. He carefully retrieves the towel that lies over Athos’ shoulders, uses a wide, soft brush to rid Athos of clinging excess hairs, and finally allows him to stand up.

Athos turns, stands with his back to the big windows, and for one moment Aramis can’t quite believe that he’s the same person who sat down on the chair half an hour ago. Athos looks younger now, looks fresher, more expressive. Aramis is a bit speechless.

Porthos is not. “You did really well, Aramis. I haven’t seen him this handsome in five years, I think.”

Athos huffs and smiles – smiles at Aramis and asks him if he would like a cup of coffee in appreciation for not making Athos go to a professional hairdresser. All Aramis can do is nod. So Athos leaves the room and goes into the kitchen, while Porthos and Aramis sweep the floor. It only takes them about half a minute, and when they join Athos in the main room, Aramis has to fight the weird sensation of finding a stranger preparing coffee for them.

After a while he gets used to it though. Athos carries himself the same way he always did, moves the same way, talks the same way. All that’s different is that there seems to be more of him now – in a strange way Aramis can’t quite explain. Maybe because he can see so much more of Athos’ face now. He sits on the sofa and watches Athos move, cuddles into Porthos quite automatically when he sits down next to him.

“I should’ve told you, eh?” Porthos murmurs after a while, and Aramis can hear the grin in his voice. “Should’ve prepared you.”

Aramis clears his throat, attempts to speak – and hides his face against Porthos’ chest. “Yes. You should have.” He tries not to pout, and fails.

Porthos chuckles. “But it’s such a nice surprise. You know what we’ll do next? Drag him to your shop and have Constance make a new suit for him. God knows he needs one – _and_ he said he’s impressed by your work. He even told Thomas and Evangeline. That’s high praise in itself.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Athos comments from the kitchen area. “And I don’t need a new suit.”

“Yes you do,” Porthos huffs. “And so do I.”

Aramis’ heart starts to beat faster. “You want me to make a suit for you?”

Porthos looks a bit uncomfortable suddenly. “I don’t think I can afford that – I wan’ed to –“

“You are _not_ getting one off the peg,” Athos interrupts him. “If I have to go through the ordeal of having my measurements taken, you will suffer the same thing – I don’t care if I have to pay for it.”

Porthos doesn’t tense, doesn’t fight. All he does is stroke his hands down Aramis’ back. “Fair enough.”

Aramis suspects this was the plan all along – not the free suit, but getting Athos to buy one for himself with the minimal amount of fuss. Athos seems to share that suspicion, and now that his bangs are no longer obscuring half of his face, his glare is that much hotter. Aramis can barely resist the sudden urge to hide.

All Porthos does is chuckle. “What? You _need_ a new suit. I have orders from your Mom.”

Athos huffs. “No wonder you’re employing war-strategies.”

Porthos smirks. “Hardly.”

There is a moment of silence Aramis doesn’t quite know what to do with. Is Athos angry? Resigned? Will this come up later to haunt them all? He watches Athos finish his coffee preparations, watches him add syrup and milk to the coffee, and bring the cups over to the table.

Porthos takes one look at his cup and starts to laugh. “Is that a skull?”

“According to Constance,” Athos replies with an air of dignity, “you are a knitwear pirate.”

Porthos laughs harder. “But you’re the one goin’ around stealin’ clothes from everyone!”

Aramis clears his throat in a rather delicate manner. “I always had a thing for pirates.”

Athos grins at the smug look taking over Porthos’ features. “There you go.” He turns his head, looks at Aramis. “I am planning on taking you as well, by the way – to that horrible soiree my mother is hosting … only if you want to come, obviously.”

“And how could he resist, as nice as you make it sound,” Porthos grunts, rolling his eyes. “You know these things are only half as bad when your Mom’s runnin’ em.”

“Yes, yes,” Athos agrees lazily, “I just did not want Aramis to set his expectations too high.” He adopts a solemn expression. “It will be boring. People will be pretentious and offensive. Since my mother _is_ in charge I can at least promise you exceptional catering though.”

Aramis stares at him, wide-eyed. “But I thought you always take Porthos – only Porthos, I mean.”

Athos tilts his head, blinks at him. “That was before I knew you.”

Aramis blushes so hard he can _feel_ the blood rising up his cheeks.

Athos clears his throat. “I mean before you became Porthos’ –“

Aramis hides his face against Porthos’ chest, can feel it when Porthos suppresses a laugh. “Flea’s gonna love this.”

“You are not helping,” Athos accuses him, and this time Porthos doesn’t hold back his laughter, lets it vibrate through his chest and right into Aramis. “You don’t need my help, trust me. You’re doin’ fine.” He strokes his hand over Aramis’ head, kisses him on the forehead. “You wanna come? Spend an evenin’ in pomp and splendour with us?”

Aramis emerges from his hiding place and looks from one to the other. “You really want me there?”

It is their space after all. A space they shared for many years, with no-one but each other. Aramis doesn’t want to impose. They already share the apartment with him after all, maybe it would be better –

“You are quite right,” Athos' voice falls into his thoughts, soft and bemused. “It is quite visible when he starts to over-think matters.”

Aramis blushes again, and Athos smiles at him. “I would not have asked if I did not want you, Aramis.”

Porthos grunts. “You didn’t ask, I did.”

Athos ignores him, keeps looking at Aramis. “Do you want to come?”

Aramis swallows, nods, and looks at Athos through his lashes. “Yes – yes I do.”

Athos smiles, and Porthos makes a peculiar noise.

Aramis doesn’t quite understand what he means when he says, “Flea’s gonna love this even more.”


	2. Chapter 2

Constance is a bit flustered. Aramis doesn’t think he’s ever seen Constance flustered. Not that he can blame her. (Aramis has always been notably bad at blaming anyone for anything. He’s a very understanding guy. Mostly because he’s often FAR WORSE.)

Constance didn’t even recognize Athos when he first came in. It was only the context of Aramis and Porthos accompanying him that gave her a vague hint; and even then she couldn’t stop staring. She’s still staring right now. But that may be because Porthos and Athos are both stripped down to their boxers.

Athos refused to be the only one to parade around in his underwear, and Porthos promptly stripped, stating that this wasn’t the first time Athos was playing coy. Aramis wants to know _everything_ about that. Later. When they’re alone.

Now he’s busy with a measuring tape, marvelling at Athos’ waist. Athos has a fabulous waist. Aramis can’t even begin to stress that point. Fabulous. _Dainty_. He keeps biting his lip and holding his breath while using the tape, trying not to touch too much. He doesn’t want to make Athos uncomfortable. Aramis knows that Athos doesn’t like people in his space, after all, doesn’t like –

“It is really alright, you know,” Athos murmurs at that point – smiles when Aramis looks up at him. “I won’t complain, I promise.”

Porthos huffs. He is standing right next to the little footstool Athos is occupying, and being a horrible distraction in his dark red shorts (Aramis is strangely relieved that Athos’ shorts have a different colour, notably a really nice shade of green). When Porthos huffs, he does so in the fondest manner possible. “Knew this was a good idea.”

“I should ban you and my mother from speaking to each other for the foreseeable future,” Athos drawls promptly. “My life would be so much easier.”

“It would also be full of hair,” Porthos quips, teasing a little grin out of Aramis. “Rest assured that we only ever want the best for you.”

“I know that,” Athos says. His voice is quiet, honest, earnest.

Aramis looks up at him again, gets another smile.

“It’s no fun when you’re disarming like that,” Porthos accuses him, sounding even fonder than before.

Athos grins. “For you, maybe.” He lifts his arm so Aramis can measure it as well. “I find that it always works really well for me.”

Aramis smiles and marks down another number in his little notebook. “What about the colour? Do you prefer a certain fabric?”

Athos smirks. “As long as it is not blue I don’t care either way.” Porthos snorts, and Athos drawls again. “I learn, you know.”

“Dark grey,” Porthos decides. “Brings out your eyes and goes with all of your ties … even the weird ones.” He turns around to look at Constance, who is standing by the door, overseeing the proceedings.

It’s the first time she’s allowing Aramis to conduct the measuring process all on his own – but then it _is_ a special occasion.

“What do you think?” Porthos asks her, and she nods, smiles at him. “It’s a good choice. As for the cut I want to go with something that will accentuate his waist.”

Aramis very nearly makes an enthusiastically approving noise at that. He bites his lip to keep it in, almost lets out an involuntary squeak instead when Porthos puts his hand on his shoulder. “You really are a godsend, you know that?”

Aramis has no idea what to say to that. Porthos appears to be aware. He squeezes Aramis’ shoulder and walks over to Constance to dazzle her with his bicep and talk fabrics with her. Aramis has no idea how he’s still breathing. Porthos looks delicious. He continues to take Athos’ measurements, promising him a nice, hot tea once the whole ordeal is over.

“Thank you,” Athos drawls in a comically defeated voice, “I am starting to feel rather parched.”

Athos is completely relaxed, Aramis realizes suddenly. Too many people keep themselves painfully upright while being measured, suck in their guts, or contort themselves in the most uncomfortable positions. Athos just … stands there. The way he always does. And while he’s not as breathtakingly unconcerned with being half naked as Porthos is, he clearly has no problem at all, neither with Aramis’ proximity, nor the process itself. Maybe they were exaggerating – both Athos and Porthos. Maybe Athos doesn’t usually hate this all that much.

Aramis smiles up at him, tells Athos they’re almost done, and gets a fond little smile back. “This is much more bearable than usual,” Athos confides to him in a low voice. “Porthos was certainly right about you. I just hope you do not mind the way we are taking advantage of you.”

Aramis blinks at him, brain freezing for a long moment. “You’ve been so wonderful to me all this time,” he blurts out eventually. “This doesn’t even begin to – to pay you back!”

Athos opens his mouth to reply, and Aramis stammers on, “I don’t have to pay you back, I know that – what I mean to say is that … that I love to help you out in any way I can, and you – you’re not taking advantage of me at all. You’re really, really not!”

A tiny little harrumph from the door alerts Aramis to the fact that both Porthos and Constance have in all probability heard every single word of his outburst. He blushes. Hotly. Nearly drops his measuring tape.

Athos clears his throat. “That is rather relieving,” he says in a low voice, and drops it even lower when he continues. “Would you assist me in picking out a bow-tie for Porthos later?”

This is really the very first time in his life that Aramis feels a smile coming up all the way from his chest. “I’d love to,” he replies, speaking just as quietly as Athos did. “As soon as he’s picked a colour for his suit.”

Athos nods and whispers, “Just that.”

“What – are you havin’ secrets now?” Porthos promptly asks from the door. “What are you whisperin’ for?”

“It is no longer a secret if we tell you, is it not?” Athos drawls at him, teasing the most scandalized look Aramis has ever seen onto Porthos’ face. “You will know soon enough.”

Porthos pouts in a beautifully exaggerated manner that draws a little giggle out of Aramis. “It’s a nice secret, I promise.”

The promise instantly transforms Porthos’ pout into a smile. “Alright then.”

“What – did you think we were plotting your downfall?” Athos inquires with a raised brow, and Porthos snorts, rolls his shoulders when Aramis looks over.

“I could take you both. At once.”

“Precisely,” Athos dead-pans while Aramis blushes again. His mind is a really horrible place – as is Constance’s, if her current expression is anything to go by. Aramis swallows and clears his throat. He really needs to finish up and make them all a nice, soothing cup of tea.

He certainly needs one.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s the evening of the soiree, and Aramis thinks he might actually combust. It’s not the people – all those strangers orbiting them like vultures pretending to be greater birds of paradise. It’s not the champagne either, Aramis only had half a glass. It’s not even the prospect of meeting Athos’ mother. It’s Porthos.

So far Aramis had thought taking Porthos’ measurements was the height of torture. Never had he imagined seeing Porthos in the actual suit would be so much worse. Porthos looks _delectable_. His suit fits him _perfectly_ , brings out his eyes and makes them look like –

No, Aramis can’t look at him. Because if he looks, and Porthos catches him looking, Porthos is going to _smile_ , and then Aramis’ll have to do something drastic. He never thought he’d be the kind of person to make out with someone in a public bathroom, but if Porthos keeps this up, Aramis just might have to. Maybe he should have gotten it out of his system when they were still at home. Watching Athos put the bowtie around Porthos’ neck … Aramis shivers remembering it. Porthos had been so _pleased_ , had thanked them both with such genuine pleasure for picking it out.

Aramis should have grabbed him right then and there. He wants to kiss him so badly. He takes another sip of his champagne and tries to calm down. He can’t. Something about the way Porthos’ shoulders look in that suit – The way his hair just – And he _smells_ so very nice.

“You look as though you are about to pounce.”

Athos’ voice is very quiet and very fond, and Aramis blushes to the roots of his hair. “Does he always look this –“

“Yes,” Athos says with a little grin. “Always.”

Aramis sighs like a heroine about to succumb to the hero’s wiles. Athos smirks. “You are enjoying yourself, yes?”

Aramis snaps out of his daze and clears his throat. “Yes! Yes I am! The food is very good and so is the music, and so far nobody has looked at me as though they ask themselves what I’m doing here, so –“ Athos’ eyes _twinkle_ in amusement, and Aramis clears his throat yet again. “He’s just so very pretty.”

“I know,” Athos drawls, somehow managing to sound completely earnest. “But so are you.”

Aramis blinks at him. “I am?”

Athos widens his eyes. “Porthos,” he exclaims in a demanding voice, “did you not tell your boyfriend he is pretty yet?”

Porthos is at their side in a heartbeat, leaning in. “What was that?”

Aramis blushes furiously. “Nothing.”

“I just told Aramis that he looks very nice this evening,” Athos explains, apparently deaf and blind to Aramis’ embarrassment. “It seemed to be the first time he has heard it.”

Aramis stares at the floor. Very hard. It is a nice floor. Everything about this locale is. There are chandeliers up on the ceiling. Five of them. They are beautiful. Aramis feels tempted to look at them again. But the floor is safer.

“I keep tryin’ to tell ‘im,” Porthos murmurs next to him, his hand suddenly on Aramis’ back. “He keeps evadin’ eye-contact.”

“So he does,” Athos agrees quietly. “Still. He should hear it.”

Porthos huffs in fond amusement and puts his arm around Aramis’ shoulders. “Athos wants me to tell you you’re pretty.” He squeezes Aramis’ shoulder. “So would you please look at me so you can see that I really mean it?”

There is no way in heaven or hell Aramis could resist that. So he peeks up at Porthos. Through his lashes. Very, very carefully. Porthos _smiles_ at him. Aramis grabs Porthos’ shirtsleeve to prevent himself from grabbing something else. Still it is very, very difficult not to drag Porthos off towards the restrooms.

“You’re lookin’ exceptionally pretty this evenin’,” Porthos tells Aramis in a solemn voice, his eyes twinkling with something that isn’t quite amusement. “I think we’ll have to go home early.”

Athos makes a scandalized noise. “You can’t!”

Porthos winks at Aramis, and Aramis giggles, relaxes a bit. Porthos is still utterly gorgeous, but that doesn’t mean Aramis has to hide – neither himself nor what he’s feeling. Porthos can handle it.

“I’d like that very much,” Aramis whispers, his voice a little hoarse, entirely honest. “But we can’t leave Athos here alone.”

“Yes, whatever would he do,” Porthos murmurs appreciatively, leans in and brushes a kiss to Aramis’ lips. “Poor, helpless little thing that he is.”

“I am about to hit you with the crab platter,” Athos threatens in an unimpressed voice, and Aramis smiles, goes to his tip-toes and gives the kiss back.

“Please don’t.”

Athos sighs as though Aramis has betrayed him. Porthos winks at Aramis again and straightens, turns to look at Athos. “Gimme that platter, I want a shrimp cocktail.”

Athos promptly offers him one. Aramis feels strangely happy suddenly, a burst of warmth that explodes in his chest and spirals out into the rest of his body.

“Here you are,” a female voice suddenly says from behind him, “I kept looking for all that hair you sprouted the last time I saw you – you could have informed me that you underwent a shearing, you know!”

A plump lady appears at Aramis’ elbow, pulls Athos into her arms, kisses his cheeks and proceeds to cup them between her hands. “You look incredibly handsome.” She looks to the side and straight at Porthos. “Thank you, my dear.”

Porthos grins. “Aramis ‘s the one who did that.”

“Ah yes,” she says, and finally lets go of Athos’ cheeks to take Aramis’ hand, “I have heard so much of you – very pleased to finally meet you.”

Athos huffs. “Aramis, I am overwhelmed with joy to be finally able to introduce you to my mother – the Countess Emilia de la Fère. You can let go of him now, mother, he is not going anywhere.”

“You are incredibly rude, as always,” she says, not meaning a word of it – even Aramis can tell – and stubbornly holding on to Aramis’ hand. “I only forgive you because you look so very handsome that Augusta will finally stop gushing about her oaf of a son.”

She looks at Athos again and sighs. “Porthos, you are a marvel and I love you very much.”

“The feelin’s mutual,” Porthos replies with a little grin, “but like I said – Aramis ‘s the one who did that. Cut Athos’ hair and everythin’ – made our suits, too.”

“Really?” she says, regarding them all with a keen eye. (Aramis can tell that Athos got his eyes from her. Maybe that is why he doesn’t mind at all that she still hasn’t let go of his hand.) “You are a designer?” she asks Aramis, taking his arm and leading him to a quiet corner, obviously intent on conversation.

“A mere tailor, Madame – my friend Constance is the designer,” Aramis says, blushing a little.

“You will call me Emilia,” the Countess says in a decisive voice. “Does your Constance make dresses as well, or does she exclusively cater to the trouser-wearing masses?”

Aramis smiles. “She makes dresses too – very pretty ones.”

“Then I need an address,” Emilia declares. “You three are the finest men here, and I’m not only saying that because I’m horribly biased.”

Aramis is at this point more or less in love.

She smiles at all three of them, regards her son with outright awe, and lets out a little sigh. “Unbelievable. Have fun boys, and thank you for coming. I’ll be over again later. Try the honey cakes, Porthos, I ordered them especially for you. Now I have to make sure Augusta is aware that my offspring is superior to hers.” With that she marches off, looking incredibly pleased with herself.

Athos clears his throat, regards Aramis with a careful smile. “She can be a little overwhelming at first –“

“I love her,” Aramis blurts, “very much!”

Aramis doesn’t think he’s ever seen Athos smile quite like this. So soft and grateful.

“Very well then.” Athos clears his throat, looks around. “Come on. I think I spotted those honey cakes.”

He takes off, across the room and towards the table holding the desserts. Porthos makes a pleased noise and makes to follow him, puts his hand on Aramis’ back and steers him very gently through the clusters of people in their way. Some of them turn to look as they pass, and Porthos leans in, whispers into Aramis’ ear. “I think they all wish you were here with them instead of me.”

His voice is so low that Aramis has to close his eyes for a moment – has to hold his breath to get his bearing. The room seems very hot all of a sudden. Porthos’ hand is on the small of his back, and it doesn’t drop lower, it stays where it is. Porthos neither fondles him in public nor does he whisper any promises into Aramis’ ear. All he does is brush the ghost of a kiss to Aramis’ ear when they reach the dessert table. Then he promptly lets go of him to acquire a plate full of honey cakes.

Athos brings Aramis a little bowl with tiramisu. “Try this one, I think you’ll like it.”

Aramis loves tiramisu. Probably not as much as Porthos loves those honey cakes, but still. He watches Athos return to the dessert table, watches him come back with a tiny cup of espresso, and raises his eyebrow.

“My mother thinks of everything,” Athos explains, tasting the coffee. “It is quite good.”

Honey cakes. Espresso. Aramis looks around, his little bowl in hand, looks at all the people in attendance and asks himself if they know that the Countess de la Fère gives her soirees not for them but for her son and his best friend. Because she loves them just as much as they love her.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm available on [tumblr](http://uenaina.tumblr.com/) if you need me.


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